


A Sharper Edge

by 13thSyndrome



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Drama, Emotional Hurt, Friendship/Love, Frustration, M/M, Self-Worth Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 21:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4279188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thSyndrome/pseuds/13thSyndrome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I see the cool, fragile look of your skin. I want to tear you, break you, and build you again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sharper Edge

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Day 5 submission for JeanMarco Week 2015. The prompts are between Apologies and Tear-Stained. I went with the Apologies prompt. 
> 
> I've noticed there are a lot of stories about Jean being an artist, but he's typically depicted as incredibly skilled. I decided to make him an artist that doesn't quite cut it. This is from Jean's POV.

There were days when I was tired of his bullshit.

  
"How does it look?" I asked.

  
I waited. I was always waiting for his answer, for his approval.

  
He stared for a good while. It was never a good sign when he took too long to reply. His eyes scanned my piece at an agonizing rate. I started to fidget. I couldn't help it. He'd seen my work so many times. For once, I just wanted him to say what I wanted to hear.

  
"It looks fine," he said.

  
Of course, he said that. What else could I have expected? Marco was the honest type, and while I tried to accept it, his habitual criticism, it was grating. It was tiring. It killed me, sometimes.

  
My head suddenly felt hot.

  
"Fine? What am I supposed to do with a 'fine'?" I said.

  
He leaned back and crossed his arms across his chest. His usual smile had an unfamiliar bitterness to it. I was being ornery. It was just something that happened. That kind of rage didn't go away by taking a walk through the park or eating a balanced breakfast.

  
"Well, I think it looks fine," he said, voice sounding clipped, perfect, and polite.

  
"Shit, Marco," I snapped, "Would you just tell me what you really think?"

  
"I believe I did."

  
He usually knew how to piss around and avoid answering anything about my art. His eyes darted to the floor. He scratched the corner of his mouth. He seemed stressed today, and I felt the need to take advantage of that. I knew it wasn't right.

  
"Give me some advice then."

  
Marco sighed and looked at my piece again.

  
I felt sick.

  
"It's all fine," he began, "But this woman's face looks a little crooked."

  
My stomach tightened.

  
"How? I don't see it."

  
"It's just her--. Well, something is off. I can't really--. I can't really figure out--. Tell you a specific area."

  
I scoffed.

  
"So, her face is crooked? I don't see it, and you can't tell me why you do? Wow, that was helpful. Thanks, Marco--."

  
"Jean, why do you ask if you don't want me to give you a straight answer? Why do you always have to do this?"

  
He cut me off, and I knew I hurt him from the sting in his voice. I knew he was stressed, because he rarely fought with me. I couldn't hold myself back.

  
"Do what? Ask you for your advice, and when you tell me nothing, get mad that you can't put some fucking thought into something I've been working on for days?"

  
I didn't want to say that.

  
"Days? That's a bit of a stretch," he said.

  
My eyes narrowed before I spoke.

  
"What is that supposed to mean? You know I've been working on this for a week."

  
He said nothing then, but his face was tinged red. We were dangling from a very weak thread; it was the simple matter of time before one of us put too much weight on our end.

  
"Well, have you got something to fucking say--."

  
"You know what, Jean? You want to know what I think? I think that this doesn't look like something you could sell. I think this looks like you spent two hours on it, and you want me to call it a masterpiece."

  
I didn't want to hear that.

  
"I don't think it's--."

  
"That's not how this part of the world works, Jean. If you don't dedicate yourself to your art--. If you close yourself off and think you've got it right--. Guess what? Your art is going to stay the same, superficial and boring!"

  
Cruel. He was cruel. I couldn't say a word to him.

  
"Jean," he whispered, "Jean, I'm--. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. You know I love your art. You know I do--. I know how hard you work--."

  
I couldn't look at him. His apologies were water in my ears.

  
I took off then, and he didn't stop me.

  
Anger filled me up, violent and alive, like a parasite that needed to be purged.

  
Back in my room, I grabbed one of the worn, green sketchpads from under my bed. My breathing was heavy, and I couldn't think properly.

  
I ripped open the sketchpad and instantly felt regret. It had all my drawings of him.

  
Small sketches of Marco running and jumping filled the pages. I liked to draw him when he didn't notice, while he ate, played games, or slept. My eyes were burning with every flip of a page. I'd drawn his body so many times. They were intimate drawings, reflecting the times when we had crossed boundaries. Some were clothed. Many were nude. I inhaled, as the sketches turned to finished drawings.

  
I loved the tones of his body. I loved the warmth of his face. I tended to draw him with more freckles than he had. He'd never seen them, the sketches.

  
I couldn't handle seeing my pathetic attempts at portraiture. It pained me, it really did. I wanted to draw him, give his image some real justice, before I showed him anything.

  
My drawings were crude. My sketches were out of proportion. My hand was too heavy. I could never draw him right. I would _never_ draw him right.

  
With a lighter in my pocket, I ran outside and threw the sketchbook at the street.

  
The pages curled against each other as if recoiling from my hand, and when I saw flame, the crackling of the paper laughed in my ears.


End file.
